For Love
by SilasBrandybuck
Summary: We know Christian is a writer with a wonderful gift for storytelling. Suppose what he wrote was only part of the tale...? Rated for thematic elements.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I began this story to explain some curious inconsistencies and contradictions within the movie. The whole tale is told by Christian in retrospect, through his novel, and certain things simply don't add up. With all due respect to our beloved English writer, I believe he misleads his readers, but for a wonderful, many-splendored thing: Love. **

**This first chapter overlaps with the end of the movie; the next will begin to reveal what Christian did not include in his tale. I strongly recommend listening to "Come What May" from the movie soundtrack before/while reading this chapter.**

**Thank you, and enjoy! ~Si**

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><p>A shower of petals melted over all of us. Zidler, Toulouse, all the Diamond Dogs in their exotic Indian sparkles and silk – and most especially Satine, shining and glowing, a star. The air itself became a subtle perfume as petals rained down, brushing their velvet against our faces, catching in our clothes. Satine's fingers clutched mine tightly, our hands a visible link between our bodies as we looked out at the sea of a thousand faces. Her voice – oh, her voice – rose with the music, a tribute for all to hear, a tribute to the triumph of Love. Those many faces flung applause at our feet without knowing how real the triumph was they were witnessing.<p>

Our voices rang out again: _I will love you!_ Light danced on jewels, slid along silk, and crowned my dearest Satine in a glimmering halo. _Come what may_… For a moment, her shining eyes met mine before we turned to deliver the final line: _I will love you, until my dying day! _The orchestra soared; around us a fountain of voices rose with it, supporting ours as the petals poured down, flickering white and red as the expanse of the stage's curtains began to enfold us. The wine-colored velvet cloth met in front of us like a kiss to the thunder of thousands of delighted patrons. My heart pounded with a higher happiness than any they knew. Satine's face radiated joy. We panted for breath, the euphoric urge to shout almost irresistible.

The cry went up to prepare for the curtain call. I turned back to Satine, a ridiculous grin still broadening my face.

Through the dimness, I saw her smile fade, the lines of her brows drifting lower. I kissed her, and she responded, but distractedly. The others were taking their places. Satine's hand slipped out of mine as I stepped forward, and she fell behind, her thin gasp cutting through the giddy chaos around us.

"Satine, what is it? What –"

I caught her as she half-fell against me, my hands seeming to keep her upright more than her own strength. Suddenly her breath was rasping in her throat, her hands chilled as they clung to my arms. I heard the air whistling as she tried to gather the breath to speak. I read my name in the shape of her lips and felt the horrifying weakness in her arms as wracking coughs shook her. Like a fading flower, she began to droop to the carpet of petals on the stage floor. Fear filled my lungs like smoke as I cradled her there.

"No, no, don't, don't… Satine, what's- what's the matter? Oh God, please…" Words fell from my mouth in jumbled, meaningless clumps. Her eyes reached out to me, pleading for help as invisible hands seemed to strangle her. She was crying, tears in her sky-blue eyes, trying to apologize, terror spreading on her face when the air wouldn't come. I smoothed her crimson hair, tried to kiss the tears and fear away, croaking half-sentences meant to calm her, crowd out whatever demon had come to steal happiness from us.

Glistening near her mouth – I touched her face, and my fingers came away crimson. Blood. A thread of blood trailed darkly down her cheek, fed by her desperate gasps. Waves of terror buffeted me as I screamed for someone to get some help. Satine was still trying to speak even as I held her against me, her beautiful voice thin and rasping.

"I'm sorry, Christian, I… I'm… I'm…" I smoothed her hair and shushed her, but she continued anyway. "I'm dying…" Her voice fell back into a whimper, small and frightened. I could not understand the words for a moment, consumed by some icy creature trailing its claws against my heart. The sounds of Satine's breathless fright woke me from my paralysis a moment ater, and I soothed her like a mother with her child. She was only frightened, sick; someone would come soon to help us. I murmured over and over to her, feeling her body strain for oxygen, telling her she'd be all right, trying to keep my voice from trembling the way my hands and heart were.

Her voice had dimmed to a tiny whisper. The red-and-white sea of petals suddenly looked bloody, blurring into her diamond-white dress. I held her closer, cradling her away from the cold stage and ominous petals. A frightened whimper, imparted in paper-fine gasps – cold.

Cold…. Please. Please no. Please, if there is a God –

"Hold me…" I could barely hear her. I drew her tear-streaked face to my shoulder, holding her tightly against me, past caring that I was sobbing and half-blind with tears. She was only scared. It would pass. It must pass. Her breaths came in short puffs against my neck, shallower than before. I forced back the sobs beating at my aching throat and kissed her porcelain face, whispering my love into her ear.

She stirred in the slightest way, and I cradled her again, straining to hear a stronger note in her breaths, in her voice. A smile curved her lips, a brave smile. My brave Satine… In a shadow of her sweet voice, she whispered, "You've got to go on, Christian."

Oh, no, no….

"I can't go on without you, though." She shushed my words, one white hand touching my face unsteadily as she breathed, "You've got so much to give." My heart was battering my chest, sobs escaping as I tried to tell her to rest, to just breathe and get better.

"Tell… tell our story, Christian." The weakness of her voice was slitting my soul into ribbons. Tears became another curtain, between us this time, and I fought to keep them from obscuring her dear, dear face. Short, shallow breaths. So little air. My chest was a mass of pain, my throat closing up, making me gasp as if the air had gone from the stage, from the world. I cannot tell her no, though I try to speak.

She is asking me to promise, her feather-soft words drifting up to me as I rock her gently, my noiseless sobs and childlike shudders half-muffled by my desperate embrace. For the first time, it is hard to look into her eyes; it takes impossible strength to fight away the agony and turn my head to her.

"That way I'll…" My heart begins to shatter. "I'll always be with you…" Her breath begins to rasp in her throat again. It is as if the air is being crushed from her; her light body arches, her head sliding back against my arm with every precious breath. I can only babble a promise, pressing her more tightly still to my chest. Somehow, she manages a smile. It is a silent entreaty, and I cannot, would not ever, deny her. I press my lips to hers in a trembling kiss.

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><p><strong>If you read, please review - even a short note is greatly appreciated!<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't own the Moulin Rouge or any of its characters - I'm just a poor, penniless writer, writing about love.**

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><p>Toulouse's chest hurt with sorrow and confusion. Toulouse had not seen Satine fall, but upon hearing Christian scream for help, had shoved the other actors aside to see what was wrong. Christian sat weeping in choking gasps while his Sparkling Diamond whispered weakly to him. Running his eyes along the somber, painted faces to either side of him, Toulouse saw no surprise – only the jaded resignation that comes with the arrival of an expected tragedy. Squinting again, he saw it was true: the Diamond Dogs had begun their mourning already.<p>

The beautiful Satine's voice was too soft to be heard now, though poor Christian could hear her, shaking his head as new tears slid down his face. Poor Christian, and poor Satine…. The dear fellow truly loved her, and the sight before him sent a sliver of fear racing into Toulouse's warm heart. Friendship had grown up between the two men over the past many months, and Toulouse knew this had the power to break the young man's heart and soul... but he did not expect to hear them shatter.

A small sound at first, an inhalation thick with panic, then a low moan. The dwarf raised his eyes to his friend's hunched figure, swallowing back the prickling pressure of tears. Satine was utterly, profoundly still against the unsteady curve of Christian's arms. Agony clawed across Christian's face as he held her close with pitiful tenderness. A wail escaped him, a child-like cry of abandonment, and he leaned forward, then back, slowly rocking the shimmering figure in his arms. A muted jingle of glass beads as Chocolat removed his headdress.

For several seconds, the longest of Toulouse's life, no one else spoke or moved, a half-circle of garish statues. Christian's lifeblood dripped out in strangled cries and groans, echoing slightly in the hollow of the curtains and the walls. Applause still came from beyond that velvet barrier, but was inconsequential.

Zidler was the first to move, turning as the doctor trotted up, moments and ages too late. The wrinkles on his old face deepened as his gaze fell upon Satine. He murmured something to Zidler, who nodded distractedly, his usual mastery gone. Clearing his throat softly, the older man stepped into the vacant space surrounding Christian, the petals muting his footsteps.

Without speaking, the doctor laid his hand on Christian's swaying shoulder. A lost blue gaze wandered along the black-clad arm, focusing on some place beyond the doctor's fatherly face.

"All right, lad… Come along now." The doctor beckoned at the Argentinean with a bob of his head, then turned back to Christian, bending to grasp his arm gently. The Argentinean strode forward silently and at the doctor's gesture, bent to take Satine's body. Grief had stolen the strength from the younger man's arms, and despite his frantic efforts, he was left on the stage floor while the Argentinean carried Satine's white body into the wings. The glimmering statues parted for him, then gradually melted away in silent huddles.

Toulouse remained where he was. The doctor's murmured consolations fell upon deaf ears: Christian's eyes were wild, blinded by tears, as he stared into the shadow where Satine had vanished. The paralysis that seemed to hold Toulouse's limbs was suddenly gone, and he began to strip away his ridiculous, encumbering costume almost violently. Christian needed a friend, and Toulouse would not abandon him now. Finally, he cast the sitar-costume aside, and clad now in the dark, close-fitting clothes he wore beneath his costume, he limped to Christian's side.

"Christian…" Toulouse tried to catch Christian's eyes with his own, but Christian only bowed his head into his hands, soft moans shakily escaping their embrace. He rocked slowly, lost in grief, oblivious to the doctor's presence and even of Toulouse.

"Are you able to stay with him?" inquired the doctor, professional once more. His eyes flickered to the wings where the dressing rooms were – where Satine was. Of course. The doctor would have to see her, examine her. Such a cold word, 'examine'. Toulouse managed a nod and put his arm around Christian's broad, shuddering shoulders.

"Christian. Christian, it's -" He caught himself before he completed the phrase. The young man's world might never be "all right" again. He finished, "It's Toulouse. Can you hear me?" There was no reply, and a little while later, when the Argentinean returned, Toulouse was starting to feel the beginnings of panic.

Retaining his steely dignity, even in his underclothes, the Argentinean gazed inscrutably at Christian; a deeper shadow that could have been pity overlay his craggy face. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he replaced Toulouse's arm with his own and crooked the other under Christian's knees. With little effort, he lifted the unresisting writer and followed Toulouse to the stairs that led from backstage to the rest of the Moulin Rouge.

Christian needed someplace quiet to rest, to grieve in private, away from the fading applause and the sound of Zidler making an indistinct announcement, voice booming with false humor and cheer. Best to take the poor boy upstairs where the private rooms were and find a place for him there.

When they reached the first flight of stairs, the Argentinean took the lead, allowing Toulouse to set his own pace. The childhood injuries to his legs, besides contributing to his unusual physical appearance by stunting their growth, had left him with what sometimes felt like a perpetual ache in the bones. Now the ache was the last thing on his mind as he followed his friends, listening to Christian's quiet groans tumble down the stairs to his ears, muffled by his hands and the Argentinean's broad chest.

As they reached the upper floor, shrouded in velvet curtains and silence, Toulouse felt he had to break the miserable hush. He said the first thing he could think of that would not be utterly foolish and disrespectful under the circumstances.

"When the Duke finds out…" He almost let his words trail off there, but the need to fill the dark hollow of sound impelled him to continue, "… what do you think he will do?"

The broad shoulders in front of him did not alter their steady pace, but the Argentinean's foreign rumble reached Toulouse a few long moments later.

"To fall in love with a woman who sells herself is to beg for pain." His dark head canted briefly to look down at Christian, who was silent and still. Toulouse hoped he was sleeping, not listening to their words. "The Diamond… She took the Duke's pride and crushed it in her hands. A man rejected chooses to pursue with still more passion, or he himself chooses to reject." Shouldering open a door to the right, the Argentinean entered the room in silence, crossed to the shabby four-poster bed and laid Christian on top of the dusky wine coverlet. His sigh seemed to gust the limp curtains of the bed into an instant's fretting before he muttered, "It always ends bad", and he turned away to take the chair nearest the door, an unreadable guardian. This left the chair nearer the bed for Toulouse, who pushed it beside the bed and clambered up, sitting with a sigh of his own.

For the second time in a mere handful of days, Toulouse found himself keeping vigil over an unconscious Christian, watching him sleep, praying his wounds – this time less visible – would heal in time. The younger man lay like a child's doll, discarded without a thought, left to suffer whatever fortune the fates brought upon him. Certainly, it seemed as though whatever God ruled so high above had discarded this man. Toulouse had no more interest in organized religion than most of Paris these days, but he did have a certain sense of an order to things in the world. Perhaps he himself had fallen out of it, or escaped its notice, in his desire to explore the irregular, curious world he had given himself up to; Christian, though – for him to be left with this piece ripped out of his heart was a tragedy not to be contemplated. If he were left so, Toulouse's trust in that one sort of stability would leave him.

There would be no freedom left, only desperation to find happiness before it is torn from you. No beauty, for desperation eats away loveliness like a moth at an old gown. No truth in a world where purity of heart merits destruction and dreams vanish between your fingers like mirages. No love, if this deepest love could not survive. Love… Christian had said something wondrous about it. Love is like oxygen. And yet that very night, Satine had died, life pressed from her in gasps and whispers, unable to breathe though wrapped in her beloved's arms. Toulouse's head spun with questions, but he had no one to demand the answers from. Perhaps if this all somehow turned out to be all right in the end, he would voice some of them to a dubious deity, and even find some answers. Right now, however, as Toulouse laid his head on the edge of the bed, one hand near Christian's in mute sympathy, that hope seemed more of a farcical illusion than any performance of the Moulin Rouge.

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><p><strong>This next chapter begins to reveal what Christian didn't include in his story to us...<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

The room was dim when I woke. Toulouse's dark tousled head indented the coverlet less than a foot from my face. My temples beat heavily, as if something was pounding to escape my head, a starburst of dull pain throbbing at the left side of my face. I raised one sluggish hand to touch the tender skin where one of those two brutes had clipped me with a fist – Satine. She had chosen the Duke, left me…. But no, that was not right at all. I had gone back to see her; I had been on stage, and Satine had sung our song. We had finished the play with the beautiful, true ending. She had been radiant, simply radiant…. But she had fallen? A memory like an echo, of desperate gasps, jarring and out of place.

Then memory struck me with the force and burning pain of a bullet. Dead – my beloved Satine was dead. She had fallen, struggled, and died in my arms within the hollow span of a few cruel minutes.

Something slowly began to carve my heart from my chest, and the pain dragged me inward, left me curled in agony, gasping through the grief choking the life from me. The barest portion of my mind that remained sane sensed Toulouse awakening and speaking to me, but I had no strength to surface from that misery. Every part of me ached as if my grief were a vicious, scaled serpent tracing itself through my veins. A hand on my face, then a worried summons. Agony. Then another, larger hand on my shoulder, shaking me, but it was the faintest tremor, barely noticed.

Shock as rough hands caught my face between them, gently tilting my head to stare at the stony face of the Argentinian. He said nothing, Toulouse close beside him, looking wretched. I read a silent command in the black eyes, but it was impossible… How could he ask me to rise from this grief, to stand and walk as if my life had not lost all its light and purpose? I closed my eyes, shutting out his face and his command, half-conscious of my own miserable groan.

The hands vanished, then reappeared under my neck and dragging at my waist, sitting me up on the bed's edge. The swarthy man bent to meet my eyes, his gleaming stare unusually intense as he said, "Before you met her, you walked. Now she is gone – you still walk. This grief will devour you, leave you empty and without strength, unless you prove to yourself that you are still alive." His words had hardly penetrated my disordered thoughts when he hauled me to my feet, trapped me against him with an arm behind my back, and began to pull me with him toward the door. My feeble struggles were ignored, and the serpent rasping through my veins gave a spiteful wrench as I found my legs functioning, my feet moving despite my heart's insistence that I was dying.

Blindly, eyes fixed on my shoes sliding in and out of my sight, I travelled with my self-appointed guardians through the halls and down the flight of stairs to the main level of the theatre. Our feet slid back and forth over the scarlet ocean of carpet, going forward, going nowhere, never getting anywhere, only finding more scarlet and blood and pain.

"A little too much celebration last night, I take it?"

That voice. Some part of my mind began to churn and pound even harder. That voice…

"A drunkard, as well as a penniless vagrant _writer_… Yet another reason for me to terminate our contract, Monsieur Zidler." My eyes focused suddenly, as if I had been blind before. Zidler stood short distance away in the aisle of the theatre, resignedly listening to the Duke's words while the coward himself cast a coy glance toward us, as if to gauge how his insult had been received. A phrase drifted into my mind: _…or himself chooses to reject…_

Zidler looked at the Duke, lips parted silently, a few long moments before slowly beginning, "I see. Of course… I shall draw up the documents…" A curt nod from the Duke. His gaze drifted back to me. I watched a tiny ripple of a sneer travel across his face.

"And you, my dear writer… I presume you spent your night in good company?" Shudders of jealousy gripped his jaw and hands by turns. The fool. The fawning, pretentious, shallow fool. I shrugged free of the heavy arm pinning me to the Argentinean's side and stepped forward with a steadiness I did not feel.

"You fool." That was all I said. Everything else was tangled and caught together in my throat and behind my eyes, fogging out everything but the arrogant scarecrow eyeing me warily a few feet away. I tried to speak, to tell him a thousand things, every miniscule piece of derision I had silently thrown at him for months. Instead, what emerged was, "She's dead."

The voice didn't even sound like mine, too distant and cracked with pain. But the Duke heard me, a peculiar convulsion seizing his face and hands for an instant, leaving behind an expression of incredulity and dawning comprehension. I repeated my words again, louder this time. Did he have a heart to ache for her? A heart to drive these dagger-words into?

"She's _dead_." There was a buzzing in my ears, in my skull, a throbbing ache crushing my chest. I didn't care that his shoulders had fallen, his face loosened, his poise falling away. The feeling growing in my chest was hate. I hated him for his simpering and falseness. I hated him for his greed and cruelty. Above all, I despised him for the stricken look of loss on his face when he had heard my beautiful Satine was dead. That he could dare to believe he had any true affection for her, or heaven forbid, love her, when he had practically killed her -

I wanted to strike him, to drive my fist into his face, leave him with the bruises my heart bore. I felt the tension behind me, knew Toulouse and the Argentinean would stop me, but it did not matter. I let my hands unclench – when had I fisted them? – and looked the Duke straight in his watery eyes. Ignoring a soft sound from Toulouse, I said quietly, "Satine despised you. She hated you. Your touch made her feel unclean, disgusting. You're nothing but a pathetic, lecherous fool."

I turned away, Zidler's wide eyes following me, Toulouse emanating concern, the Argentinean unreadable. I felt heavy and leaden all over, used up. Leaning against one of the empty, velvet seats, I listened to the hesitation, then the quiet, dragging exit of the Duke. Oh, Satine. I was able to do that much for you, to say what you could not except in my confidence…. The heavy echo of the theatre door shut the Duke out, and I drew an unsteady breath.

"My boy…" Zidler had one hand on my shoulder, his voice intruding. "You haven't –" I brushed past him, and started to walk away, anywhere else.

"Christian! Listen to me for a moment, just listen – Satine is all right. She's alive, my boy! In poor health, to be sure, but she is _alive_." He just kept repeating it, over and over, while I stared back at his wide eyes, the upturned points of his ginger mustache, unable to understand. How could he say she was alive? How… I stumbled as he shook me gently, still repeating, "My dear boy, have you heard me? Satine is alive."

The serpent under my skin gave a shudder.

I was asleep. Still asleep. For a dizzy instant, I thought I felt the pillow on my cheek, the sheets against my skin, and felt like weeping again. Impossible that this world could be so cruel….

The world lurched, and I staggered, pulled forward by one arm. Toulouse was hauling at my wrist, eyes shining, a grin beaming from his face. Before I could pull away, pressure on my shoulders propelled me forward with Toulouse's hasty steps, the bulk of the Argentinean behind me. Trapped again. No avoiding this pain, even in dreams.

Through doorways and a hall, the same horrible, dark hall they had taken Satine away through. Still beaming, still towing me along, Toulouse was chirping something I didn't hear. Iron arm behind me, guiding me down the hall into shadow. Was I dying, joining Satine?

I stood in the open doorway for years. Just when I thought my knees would buckle, I was stumbling forward, collapsing against the bed on my knees, taking her face into my hands. Her face was warm. The chill was gone – she was here, smiling across at me. Her face was pale, but with the pallor of angelic wings, of hope, of the beatific joy glowing ever warmer in my aching chest. She said my name, let it float to me like a feather on the breeze of her breath, and when I could do nothing but shake my head she laughed a little – the most precious, light sound on this earth.

Finally, the sensation of her living, alive against my hands, so close to me, loosened the bands of fear that had crushed my voice. My reply was a groaning prayer of her name as I gathered her into my arms and wept over her again. Her arms close around my neck, her face against mine, and the tears blurring the both of us were all I knew.

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><p><strong>I'll do my best not to keep you waiting so long, but real life keeps sticking its nose in where it's not wanted. This entire fic is planned out, and partially written, though, and shall not be abandoned! Reviews feed my poor, penniless writer heart (and maybe, juuuust maybe, get that next chapter up a little sooner...)!<strong>

**~ Si**


	4. Chapter 4

**I apologize abjectly for the ridiculously long hiatus on this story. I was dragged into a dark alley by another fandom, and held captive by a whole warren of plot bunnies who only released me after my one-shot had morphed into a novel-length story with a mind of its own. I'm back now, and all my attentions shall be henceforth focused solely on this story (I set up traps to catch any uninvited plot bunnies and hold them until I'm ready to hear their ideas, so I'm safe).**

**To all who have read and reviewed so far: Thank you so much! If you're one of my earlier readers who's miraculously still following this story: Your patience is saintly.**

**The previous chapters are also newly revised, to fix a few silly mistakes and play with description. **

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><p>It was Harold Zidler's voice that finally brought us back to ourselves, to the backstage dressing room around us. He was saying something about caution, about chances and hopes, but his voice faded to nothing compared with the reality of Satine sitting with her hands in mine, eyes searching my face. Zidler's words didn't matter. Instead I brushed the traces of tears from her face and murmured, "Satine, what- What happened? How-?"<p>

She shook her head, ringlets of her flame-bright hair swaying against the pale silk of her dressing gown, dark lashes swaying low as she looked down at our clasped hands. To the others in the room – Zidler with Marie clinging close to him, Toulouse, the Argentinean, and the somber-faced doctor, who I hadn't even noticed until that moment – she must have looked the picture of composure, the Sparkling Diamond sitting apart and aloof, but to my eyes, there was fear hidden behind the porcelain mask. A soft sound in her throat that only I heard, a casual tilt of her head that was meant to let her pretend she was talking of something mundane, something safe…. Still, her fingers trembled between mine, and I drew her close as she spoke.

"I was… I thought I was dying, Christian," she whispered. "I couldn't breathe, and I- And then I woke up here, instead, and…" The tremor in her voice echoed too closely the desperate whispers from last night, and I shushed her gently. That was nothing she needed to relive, nothing that should have happened to begin with.

"But you're better now," I reminded her gently, reassuring. "You'll get better, and-"

I broke off as she shook her head slowly against my shoulder, sniffling almost inaudibly, and both Zidler and the doctor shifted uneasily on their feet, tilting like pear-shaped pendulums on the edge of my vision. Marie turned worried doe-eyes up to her husband's face, and I looked down at Satine as her hidden tears bled through my shirt against my skin. Answering before I could ask, Satine said in a miserable whisper, "I'm not. I won't."

The doctor took a step forward, voice professionally apologetic as he said, "I'm sorry, but my original diagnosis remains… She has all the symptoms."

"Of what?" I demanded, tense as if it were the doctor himself causing her illness, his very nearness a threat to Satine's health.

"It's consumption," came the near-silent whisper from the woman in my arms, and the room tilted briefly in a lopsided whirl, a lazy round on a carousel full of ice and black pain. A quiet, wounded sound from Toulouse, quickly stifled.

Consumption… Everyone knew of it, knew friends of friends who had fought that slow battle before succumbing to the inevitable. The word meant bloody handkerchiefs and false, unconvincing smiles from my parents, believing I was too young to know that my mother was fading away from us. and I knew Satine had been ill now and then throughout the past year, had fainting spells now and then, but I had assumed she was exhausted from rehearsal, from the stress of keeping up appearances for the Duke…. Could I have been that blind? How had I not seen the signs myself?

The black-clad man took another step forward, head inclined like a priest dispensing advice, murmuring, "It's best you both prepared yourselves…. Last night, the attack was severe enough to cause a faint, nearly stop her breathing entirely…"

I hadn't known, and the knowledge hurt. She'd been alive in my arms last night behind the curtain, and like a fool, I had fallen to pieces when I could have done something to help her…. She had sung so beautifully only minutes before… And that didn't fit, felt out of place like a flat note in a pianist's composition. I frowned, the doctor's words rambling past me unheard. That awful disease robbed you of your strength, stole your very breath away – no one battling consumption could ever have sung as she did, so many times in the past year, in the past week of rehearsal and performance alone.

"But she sang," I interrupted, ignoring the twitch of annoyance on the man's face. "How could she possibly have sung if that were true? Have you heard her, Doctor? You were there last night – you must have. How could she-?"

He stopped short of actually waving a hand in dismissal, but it fluttered aimlessly by his waistcoat for a moment, pitching his patronizing words over my head.

"There have been similar cases, I'm sure, where the symptoms are alleviated for a time, due to… ah… a change in surroundings or the like. I have formed my professional, studied opinion, however, my lad, and I must impress upon you how very little time may be left. While I..."

Satine was trembling like it was the dead of winter, face hidden against my shoulder, and the more the doctor droned on, the more clearly I heard a familiar tone growing in his voice, the sound of doors slamming shut, closing out hope, my father barking recriminations at me for not abandoning my "obsession" with love, the glassy-eyed march of the world that made no room in their hearts for hope, love, or beauty. What did this man know? Who was he to mark out Satine's lifespan, to lean solicitously closer like a fatherly angel of death, waiting for me to give in and abandon hope? Him saying these words did not make them truth, and no amount of fatherly counsel would make me weaken and bow to what he pompously declared to be unavoidable.

"Get out," I breathed, and his poisonous rambling hesitated. "I said get out," I repeated, the words crossing the room quietly and cold as steel, many degrees more gentle than the shout swelling in my chest. Under my glare, the doctor sniffed once, tipped his hat and a significant glance at Zidler, and made for the door leading out to the auditorium.

Toulouse's concerned eyes rested on me like a hand on my shoulder, and I added, "Please," for his sake. I wasn't angry with him or the others, apart from that cruelly indifferent doctor, but Satine was uncharacteristically meek and silent under the circle of worried eyes, and I didn't trust my temper to hold. With a few last looks back, they all filed out and away, and I drew Satine close as the door shut, simply holding her for long minutes until her shaking stilled and she lifted her head from my shoulder, wiping at her tear-stained face.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, as if she were somehow at fault for all this, as if she thought I could possibly blame her for being ill, for being frightened. It was this place… this dark, beautiful, glimmering place. I'd known Zidler for nearly a year now, worked alongside him to produce "Spectacular, Spectacular" all these months, but today I was seeing more clearly than I ever had in my life, and for all the energy and enthusiasm he embodied, there was no hope in Zidler's eyes. The show had to go on. If the show stopped, there would be nothing left. He had taught Satine the same creed, and the same haunted determination had already begun to drain her. I didn't want to see her become another of the gaunt, unhappy automatons who made up the Diamond Dogs, women who lived in determined desperation between curtain calls. The glamour of the Moulin Rouge had faded with the stars, and in the dusty daylight, I could see the weariness, the unquenched thirst for something more than absinthe and lust that weighed on us all. The magic had fallen away now that I was backstage, not just another starry-eyed member of the audience.

Before Satine could apologize again, I pressed my lips to her forehead, listening to her soft sigh before murmuring, "Do you still want to go away with me?"

She pulled away immediately to look at me, blue eyes full of wary hope like a candle flicker, just for a moment, before she said, "But…. Christian, how can we-?"

"Do you?"

A watery smile spread across her face, erasing a little of the fear and illness there, as she said, "Yes," watching my smile reflect hers.

"Then we'll leave as soon as you can, as soon as you want to."

"But, Christian…"

Her smile faded, the glow in her eyes dimmed, and I took her thin shoulders in my hands, willing that spark of hope to return as I insisted, "Doctors can be wrong, Satine! They make mistakes."

Uncertainty. I could see her struggling, afraid to spread the paper-thin wings of hope in case they wouldn't support her, but that was all right – I had hope enough for us both, enough to carry us both, until she could fly for herself alongside me. "You can sing, Satine, beautifully. You've gone days before without feeling sick. It doesn't make sense, what he said. What if he's wrong?"

I saw the moment she decided to trust my words, to let my hope carry her, some of her own poise returning in the lift of her chin, a bolder breath. But then, always so careful, wary like a wounded creature that knew the bite of traps, she began to frown.

"But what about the Duke? If he finds out we're together…" At the first mention of the tyrant's name I was already shaking my head, a smile creeping at the corner of my mouth despite the wrench of anger his name unearthed in my heart.

"He doesn't know. I met him out there, before," I said, glancing over my shoulder at the wall between us and the now-empty auditorium, "before I knew… Before I'd seen you. _He doesn't know_. He's terminating the contract with Zidler, and then he's gone, forever."

It was her turn to shake her head, urgently, entreating me to listen to the fear that threatened to steal the budding confidence from her eyes, return her to the scared little girl I had seen far too often of late.

"But if we leave… If he sees us, if he hears that we're gone, then he'll know." Her eyes were wide, her words tumbling from her lips at a frantic pace. "Christian, he's more powerful than you realize, than you can imagine! Politically, here and in England, and he was so jealous… He'll be watching you, and if he finds out he'll kill you, Christian, I know he will! You didn't hear him that night, when-"

A frightening thinness had crept into her voice, and I rushed to soothe her, hoping my expression hid how my heart had redoubled its pace at that warning sign. Nodding, agreeing to all she said, I gathered her close and said, "All right, all right… It's all right. We won't do anything until we have a plan, then – until we think of something. Don't worry, Satine. I'll take care of everything, I promise." She nodded, and I went on, "You just need to rest and get better, all right? Just sleep for a little while. I'll stay."

Exhausted as she was, she fell asleep beside me in mere minutes, one hand on my arm as if the Duke could come and spirit me away at any moment. Guarding me as I guarded her. For a long time, I lay there on top of the silk sheets and watched her sleep, reassuring myself every time she drew a slow, untroubled breath. She would be all right. I didn't dare consider anything else.

The slow creak of dusty hinges behind me told me someone had returned, but I didn't look over my shoulder; the uneven footfalls, and the hesitancy in them, declared our visitor to be the ever-faithful Toulouse. He came round the foot of the bed slowly, as if afraid I would send him away again, and I felt a pang of guilt. As he took a seat on a trunk among the bits of luggage and theater accoutrements around the dressing room, his face was already set in a wince, sympathy pouring out of his dark eyes, and I spoke to fill the silence before the other man offered any stumbling words of commiseration or support.

"We're leaving, Toulouse."

A beat, the other man absorbing the news with a blink and a slow nod, taking a long breath before he quietly asked, "Where will you go?"  
>I had thought of this, while listening to the soft cadence of Satine's breathing, turning the problem over in my mind.<p>

"To England, at first."

Paris was beautiful, a heady whirlwind of bohemian experience, like leaping into a surreally vivid painting, and part of my heart would always remain here. But Paris was also wild and careening, something to give your life to with both hands or not at all, and I needed both hands to protect Satine now, to hold and support her. Back to England, then, at least to begin with, back to streets I knew, and a place to ground ourselves. After that…

"After that, we'll see."

* * *

><p><strong>I hope to update within a week or two, as the next chapter's half-written already. Please leave a quick review if you read - it just takes a minute, and you don't even have to log in if you don't wanna. ;) Thanks, guys!<strong>


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